Guardian Angel
by Purple-Rosie
Summary: For those who have never been given a second chance, for those who have never believed they could reach out to anyone, look up. Look to the skies and reach for the soul that guides you. AU-ish. Oneshot. 1 OC. No pairings. Indirectly Un!Zombie's POV.


Hello, Everybody!

So I was reading through one of Tessa's 'Ask the Characters' journals on her Deviantart page, and I noticed that someone had asked {…} if he was Hanna's guardian angel. He responded that he "didn't know he would be so honored." The idea just leapt out at me so strongly that I absolutely _had_ to write something for it.

It's taken me a few months, but this is the result.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hanna is Not a Boy's Name, nor any of the characters/locations therein. I do, however own the Archangel and his instruments, and the story.

* * *

Guardian Angel

He stared down at his orange-sneakered feet, trying to comprehend where he was. It just didn't make sense. One minute, he was in an alley, bleeding, and now…

Now he was somewhere that…wasn't. Nowhere. And yet somewhere, everywhere, he couldn't place himself and he wasn't all that sure he wanted to. _What happened to me?_

"You died. Simple as that."

The sudden voice in the surrounding emptiness scared the hell out of him and he jumped practically out of his skin when he heard it. It was _right there_ behind him. He did a kind of startled little trip/dance/flail number and whipped around. _Very, very ungraceful, _he chided himself with a frown.

The voice chuckled from somewhere behind him. Again. "Now, now, no need for theatrics, I'm not here to hurt you. I'm not even all that scary. Look."

He turned around a second time, slowly. There, standing as if it had never been anywhere else, stood a slim figure with snow-white hair and strange, unearthly pink-grey eyes. They smiled.

"See? Not so bad."

And then he blinked. In the span of a microsecond the world around him shifted from absolute nothingness to something else. Tangible but still unreal. It was just…a place. Not even really a room, just _some_where – which was _so_ much better than _no_where. He stared, wide-eyed at the person before him. Where had they come from? He certainly hadn't seen them there a moment ago.

He studied it. Tall. Short white hair, longer on the left side and hanging down into a thin, delicate face. Pale skin. Tan tunic and black leggings with high, black-buckled boots. And then there were those eyes. Magenta – no, silver! – and glowing softly with an inner light. Not human. No, not human.

His mouth felt stuck and it took him a moment or two to remember how to work it; the figure just watched him with all the time in the world. "Wh…where am I?"

"You're dead." Thin shoulders shrugged. "You're where the dead go. Well," a chuckle, "sort of, at any rate." Another shrug – a half one.

"Who are you?"

The figure just smirked, though it was friendlier than a normal smirk should have been. "That really isn't all that important, you know? I'm not exactly anybody significant." It ducked its head slightly and shook it, still smirking. "But humans always have to have names for everything, don't they? Well then," those glowing eyes looked back up at him, bore right through his outer shell and into his core. "I am of Smoke, an Archangel, specifically. Will that suffice?"

He nodded once, slow and numb.

"Good! Then we should get started, don't you think?" And this time the smirk was a companionable grin.

The Archangel strode away from him then, over to a line of shelves that he knew had not been there before. He gaped at his new surroundings. A huge, black cauldron stood to the side of the shelves, a tall book stand just on the other side of that. Resting on the shelves themselves were bottles upon bottles upon bottles of shimmering ethereal smoke that swirled lazily around like the eye of a storm.

The Angel reached up and deftly plucked one of the bottles down. "What were you called again? Oh never mind, I got it." And with that, the Angel began drifting down the line, apparently looking for something in particular.

He watched the odd creature work, trying to piece everything together in his mind. He was dead. He was in…what, the afterlife? Heaven? Limbo? The Hall of Judgment? He had no idea, and this 'Archangel' did not seem to feel any need to extrapolate. He ran a hand through his dark hair absently. And there was another thing, this supposed Angel; if he was dead, shouldn't this thing, this being, be leading him to his final rest? What was going on? (Besides that, was this 'Archangel of Smoke' a male or a female? He couldn't quite tell; everything, right down to the voice, screamed, "gender-neutral.")

His brain wracked itself for any trace of information. He remembered his death, his murder. He remembered the feel of the knife in his back, the hot, bitter betrayal he felt as the scarlet life-blood leaked out of his frail body and onto the pavement. Was he here, wherever _here_ was, because of something he had felt or thought or done in his last moments of life?

"Am I…" he swallowed – a curious action, considering his state of being. "Is this my judgment?"

The Angel looked incredulously over its shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "What? No. No such thing." It waved a hand dismissively. "Besides, only a Seraph can do something like that." It paused in its actions, turning away from the shelves with one graceful hand still resting on the top row. It regarded him for a moment, head tilted. "Truth is, you were a really great guy."

He perked up. "I was?" Well, that was a good thing, right?

There was another one-shouldered shrug accompanied by a half-smile. "At least, you had the _potential_ to be." The snow-colored brows furrowed. "So much potential. You were a Bright Soul, you just never acted on it, which confuses me…but I'm interested to see what you could do if given the opportunity." The face softened into something that might have been sympathy. A light chuckle sounded from the back of the creature's throat as it looked at him. "Maybe if you weren't so bogged down by what you _thought_ you should do, then you'd be able to do what you _wanted_ to do. You're special. Bright Souls are rare anymore so there's no way I'm letting someone like you get away that easily." A long, frail finger wagged in his direction.

He just stared; unsure, confused. If he wasn't being judged and he wasn't being sent on to wherever it was that he was supposed to go, then why? _Was I a good enough person or not?_

But the Angel just moved to lean over the side of the cauldron, which nearly came up to its chest. It quirked an eyebrow. "What would you say to a second chance?"

"As in…go back? Be alive again?"

"Eeeh in a way." That porcelain face screwed up in a 'not exactly' kind of expression. It looked out of place and at the same time…strangely appropriate. (He supposed it must have been common, among the kind, to pull that sort of thing off.) "Did you know that there are nine levels of Angelic Beings?" Nine fingers were held aloft. "And that only the fist two, the Angels and the Archangels, can be guardians?"

He waited for the creature to continue. When it did not, he prompted, "Why are you telling me this?" He was genuinely confused – but then again, he had been confused from the very start of this whole encounter – and just a little curious as to why this information was important or how it related to him. The angel must have some reason, right?

A shrug. (Really, he had no idea that angels _shrugged_ so much!) "How would you like to be someone's Guardian Angel?"

And his mind blanked out. He just stared at the white-haired figure before him, blinking like an owl tripping on acid. "Wh-what?" he managed to sputter.

"You'd just be a regular, not an Arch like me, so you wouldn't have to worry about being summoned to fight. It'd be a good use of your soul; much better than what you've done so far. You could have someone to remember you when you're gone." As it spoke, that pale, doll-like face brightened, almost as though it were channeling excitement. Or hope. One graceful hand danced absently along the lip of the cauldron.

But if the angel was excited, he was anything but. Something it had said struck him like a mallet to the face, leaving him to gape. More so than he had already been doing. For what felt like an hour or more – though what was time in this place? – he just stood there, trying desperately to make sense of what he had heard. And it wasn't even the part about him being a guardian angel that had set in so hard. In a quiet voice, barely above a whisper, he asked, "You mean…no one remembers me now?"

And the creature's expression softened to sympathy, once again. "Now that I can't answer." The sex-less voice was quiet, gentle. "But what do _you_ think? Have you done anything that's worth remembering? Are _you_ worth remembering?"

He didn't know how to respond, he had no answer. It was sobering, to say the least, that, as he wracked his groggy, unnerved brain, (did he even technically have one anymore?) he could not find a single thing from his past life that could argue in his favor. True, he had had friends, but they were never very close; nothing more than cordial acquaintances, really. They had only ever been polite to each other. Had only ever gone through the motions of friendship. But there was never any real companionship. None. And he had been lying to himself that he didn't feel it down in his bones. He was lonely and he knew it – he had longed to reach out to someone, to help them, to have them reach out to him, but he had never done it. He had never known how.

So many people had come and gone through his life that he could not remember. He felt useless, without any sort of guidance. He had wanted to help. Gods, he had wanted to help someone, anyone. So much that it had hurt; a deep ache in his chest that throbbed with every beat of his heart. But no. He had simply gone through his daily routine year after year after year. Never doing anything different. He had not lived, he had existed. And now he was dead; any chance of him changing his ways and starting over was gone. Or was it? This odd person, angel, i_thing!/i,_ in front of him was offering him another shot at life – at himself.

And so he thought. No, he was not worth remembering, not really. But now he could be. All he had to do was say 'yes.'

"…What would I have to do?"

And the Angel grinned. "Take care of your charge. Keep them safe, make sure they're happy. That what we do, we protect the ones who need us most."

"Do I get wings?" He felt his lips twitching into a tiny smile. It was a joke, yes, albeit a weak one, but he was also genuinely vaguely curious. Wings would be cool, wouldn't they?

The Angel scoffed good-naturedly. "Do _I_ have wings?" A grin; one slender finger pointed back over a shoulder to indicate the bare, wing-less space behind. White tresses flopped into those bizarre grey-pink eyes as it gave its head a shake. "Naw, that's just the way humans depict us. But you _will_ have a mark." It tapped its temple, just beside its right eye. "Your _eyes._ A Bright Soul cannot hide behind a mortal's eyes. It shines through." There was a pause, then, "So…what do you say?"

_What __**do**__ I say? _he wondered. An angel. He could be somebody's guardian angel. His head felt like he was reeling. This was really happening. How many people could say that they had been given a chance like that? And if he were to say no, he would never have that opportunity again. So what did he want to do? The silence stretched on and at long last he lifted his head, took a breath he did not need, and said, "I…I'd like…to try. I want to help someone."

A chuckle and a knowing smile. "Thought you'd say that. " And the Angel pivoted on its booted heel and strode back over to the shelves to continue its previous task.

No one said anything for a minute; he just continued to watch the figure's actions. It appeared to be scanning a particular row of bottles on one of the higher shelves. _What the hell is it doing?_ He didn't dare ask out loud, though by now he was sure he would be heard regardless. Instead, he cleared his throat. "So do I just pick somebody, or…?"

The Angel grunted, reaching up to pluck a bottle from its resting place, only to replace it again. "Sometimes it works that way. But I've got someone in mind that I think'd be perfect for you. Been watching 'em for years now. Just lost the parents, no friends, no family. This kid could _definitely _use an angel." It let out a yelp of triumph as it snatched up another bottle with nimble hands.

The glass container looked no different than any of the dozens of others lining the non-existent walls. At least, as far as he could tell; but then again, who was he to say? However, it must have been special, judging by the pleased, thousand-watt Cheshire-cat grin. It was in that grin that he almost, not quiet, but _almost_ thought that the being might be male, but he couldn't tell.

He realized that it was speaking again and, with a startled blink, tuned back in to find it once more behind the cauldron with the bottle uncorked and held in front in its face.

"I would have taken them myself long ago, but I've already got two charges of my own; I can't take on another one." A pair of star-dust-colored brows rose as those glowing eyes narrowed. "Trust me, this one's _really _gonna need you in about ten years." And with that, it brought the neck of the flask to its lips and began to murmur.

It was so rapid that his eyes strained to catch the movement and just barely succeeded. He was almost glad he no longer needed to blink. The sound itself was indiscernible, coming out as nothing more than a low vibration. Like the wings of a humming bird. As it continued to whisper into the glass, the swirling mist inside began to twist and churn; coiling over and over itself in agitation. As it moved, the shimmering silvery color became darker and darker until it was a rich, fiery red. By the time the bottle was removed from the pale mouth, it flickered like a flame in the wind.

He stared in awe as the Archangel tilted the bottle with just the barest movement of its wrist and poured the smoke into the cauldron – suddenly alight and pulsing with magic. It looked as though the whole of the cosmos spun inside the black iron of the vessel. And as the smoke drained out from the neck of its former prison, it flowed more like water than mist, more fluid than air. When it touched the glittering, turning, _shining_ ether within the cauldron, the entire turbulent mess transformed into a pool of bluish-silvery light. Everything was engulfed in cool, soothing atmosphere, wrapping around his arms, caressing his face, drifting across his skin. And then the light faded and the feeling died down, leaving only a sense of loss in its wake.

He shivered but resisted the urge to rub his arms. It wasn't cold that had caused it, after all. He closed his eyes, willing the sensation to dissipate. _Why? Why do I feel so…alone? It hurts._

In an attempt to shake the uncomfortable emptiness, he gave a weak chuckle, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "S-so what do I say to this person? 'Hi, I'm your Guardian Angel?' " Inwardly he cringed.

It was here that the odd, snowy-haired creature actually looked sheepish, like a child caught not telling his parents that he had eaten the last cookie but knowing full well that they already knew. "Ehhh…" it stalled, turning away briefly to set the now-barren bottle down on a table that had not been there a moment prior. "Well, see, here's the thing…" Those brilliant eyes shifted back over to him, though the rest of the body did not follow. "You won't know."

He blinked, confused. "What…that I'm-?"

"You won't know why you're _there."_ The Archangel finally turned to face him. It sighed and scratched at the back of its neck._ "_Like I said before, if you're not bogged down with what you _think _you should do, then you might be able to do what you _want_ to; what you _feel_ is right." It gave him a pointed look, silently willing him to understand.

And he did. Strangely enough, he really did. And part of him was grateful beyond imagining. A new start. A second chance. "Will you send me to them?"

It gave a shake of its head. "No. Part of your job is to find your charge yourself."

Wait, what?"But how am I supposed to do _that?_" He stared incredulously. Surely this 'person' wasn't serious. He couldn't be expected to just wander around until he, by some miracle, found this lost soul, could he? He had no idea where he was going or who he was looking for. What was he supposed to do, play a game of magical Marco Polo?

But the Archangel wasn't interested in answering. Instead, it leaned its slim frame over the edge of the still-flickering cauldron and reached an arm into the swirling abyss deep within. As it pulled its arm back out slowly, as if pulling against water, something glowing and white with bright flashes of pink followed the trailing fingers through the air. With one swift movement the figure snatched the object from where it hovered, twirling. It gazed at the thing in its hand until the light surrounding it dissipated, leaving only a small rectangle of white. "Here." It closed its eyes and held the thing out towards him. "Take this, just in case you get lost."

He took it, noting the wink the Angel gave him as he did so. It was a card. Small and thin and bordered by a broad black strip. _Hanna Falk Cross_, it read in blocky lettering, _Paranormal Investigator. _Well, at least that was a start. But then again, "Wait, are you at least going to point me in the right direction?"

The Angel just tapped its temple again. "Do you feel that thrumming? In the back of your head?"

He paused, listened. There, in the very back of his mind was a strange, incessant kind of low buzzing sound. No, not a sound; more of a feeling. He nodded distantly, still focused on the pulse in his skull.

"That's them. The closer you get, the louder it is, and the stronger the bond between you grows." The old, knowing smirk returned to that china face. "Follow the thrumming, you'll do fine."

The creature moved as if to turn and walk away and he was jolted out of his curious examination of both the card and the sound that resonated through his head. "Wait!" he called, holding up a hand to stop the only other being in that empty space from possibly leaving him alone. "What, now? You said ten years—"

"Oh yeah!" came the exclamation. Ethereal eyes widened in sudden recollection and that smirking mouth dropped to form a small 'o.' It whipped back around to face him again. "I forgot to tell you this, but time moves a little differently here." One pale finger was held aloft in a very teacher-like manner. "A day to us is a decade to them."

"So it's already been…?"

"Exactly." The figure cocked its head to one side. A strange look passed over those perfect features. "I'm going to apologize right now for the state of your earthly body. I've tried to keep it as intact as possible, but mortal things tend to rot and decay, you know?"

Before he could even begin to formulate a surprised reply, he felt a tugging in his chest; a gripping on his very soul that called him back to the plain he had come from. Orange light filled his vision, a burning sensation behind his eyes and he realized that the light was coming from _him!_ His eyes, his soul, shining through and glowing bright for the world – or, antiworld – to see. A Bright Soul.

The tug grew stronger and he felt himself being pulled downward, out of himself and back into reality. He felt heaviness creep back in, as well as the weightlessness of falling and soon, much too soon for him to process, everything around him was disappearing.

The last thing to go was the image of the Archangel of Smoke, with its snow-white hair and radiant, grey-pink eyes, holding up a hand in farewell.

"Good luck, Angel of Cranes. We will meet again…"

* * *

If anyone got confused by the whole "Angel of Cranes" thing, here's the low down: The Archangel {who does have a name, but it's not important here} is an original character of mine from a short story I wrote long ago. He is the Archangel of Smoke – meaning that is what he is associated with, what his magic is formed from. Every angel in my original story is associated with something and since this is sort of a cross-over, Galahad must take on the rules of that story for his meeting with my angel to work.

Also, the whole "wings" conversation was my little joke about {…}'s hair tufts. So in a way, the Angel really did give him wings…

Musical Muse: none


End file.
